


In One Heavenly Tie

by Katbelle



Series: learn me hard, learn me right [5]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Cosette knows more than Valjean gives her credit for, Fluff, Getting married when you legaly cannot, Javert tries resisting but how long can you resist Valjean's sad puppy eyes, M/M, Marius probably as well, Marriage Proposal, Movie/Brick Fusion, Romantic Fluff, Secret Marriage, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:57:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean hadn't thought about marriage in many years, not even in Toulon, where stranger things occured. He simply never had a reason. And then he fell in love. And then, he bought the ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In One Heavenly Tie

**Author's Note:**

> This story combines and fills [two](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3805999#t3805999) different [prompts](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3213103#t3213103) from the k-meme. I have no other excuse than challenging myself to write fluff; it was tough, I had to remind myself every four seconds "you're not allowed to kill anyone; you're not allowed to emotionally torture anyone".
> 
> The title borrowed from Thomas Moore's _Lalla Rookh_.

**In One Heavenly Tie**

It was surprisingly warm for a mid-February day; if not for the thin layer of snow covering the street, one might have thought that it was spring already. As it was, the white fluff reminded all those who dared a stroll that it was winter still and that it was unlikely to change for some time, even if the season was more in the minds of the people than it was reflected in the weather around them. Such was the Parisian weather, always unpredictable. It was much worse in the countryside, however; there the fields and the roads alike disappeared under the snow and it made traveling much more difficult — so difficult that Valjean had briefly worried he might have to resign from the trip altogether and risk disappointing Cosette. It had not come to that, thankfully; he arrived safely in Paris and met with his darling daughter just like they planned, in _Procope_ , over a sorbet and a coffee. They even dared to indulge themselves and asked the waiter to bring them a plate of pain à la duchesse — after all, it was a grand occasion.

"And how is Marius?" Valjean inquired about his son-in-law. Cosette's letters, while always long and thorough, tended not to focus much on her husband; she wrote, of course, of her happiness and Marius' goodness and gentleness and love, but never in much detail. Valjean wondered if it was perhaps because Cosette did not wish to upset her elderly lonely father. Lonely. If only she knew.

"Marius is well," the girl — the woman, Valjean corrected himself, Cosette was a little girl no more — replied and scooped a spoonful of sorbet into her mouth. "Quite recently he was offered a post in the criminal division at the ministry. By Monsieur Barthe himself!"

Barthe. Valjean vaguely recognised the name as the one that Javert liked to curse when the day had been particularly long and difficult and the man himself had been in a particularly foul mood. Barthe. Félix Barthe if Valjean was not mistaken. The Minister of Justice.

He wondered what was Marius' opinion of the minister and reminded himself to ask that of the boy when they met for dinner.

"Monsieur Gillenormand must have been thrilled to hear those news."

Marius' and his grandfather's inability to see face to face in certain matters was a bit of a private joke between Valjean and Cosette. For all their own miscommunications — and the omissions that still laid between them — Valjean could never understand why the two men were always so vocal about their differing political views and beliefs.

Perhaps they did not know how to express their affections otherwise. Perhaps it was that.

Cosette giggled and said, "He will be happy no more when he realizes that Marius had not accepted the post to further the glory of the monarchy."

Valjean smiled when his mind conjured the image of Monsieur Gillenormand's irritated face. With that same smile still on his lips, he asked, "Are you happy, Cosette?"

It was a year since the wedding, since he had given Cosette to Marius, since he had tried to retreat from their lives, since fate had decided to once again laugh in the face of his choices and turn his whole life around. And what a year it was!

"I am, Papa," Cosette answered with a smile of her own. She looked down to play with a napkin. "As happy as I will ever be, in fact. I possess no words to describe you how content I am to run a house, to watch the happiness on my beloved's face when he comes back from work every night. Oh, Papa, the joys of a married life!" Her eyes snapped back to Valjean's face and she suddenly grew more serious. "How I wish you could know them as well."

"My dear Cosette, I doubt there is a woman in the whole of France who would want to marry me," Valjean said to her for that was the only truth he could say. Cosette's eyes squinted at that and she cocked her head to the side, regarding him mutely. After a while she sighed simply and shook her golden head.

"Perhaps not," she said.

~***~

It was solely Cosette's fault, the fault of her earnestness and her deep desire to make everyone around her happy, that Valjean could not stop thinking about the conversation they had had in the café. Later that evening he was a witness to all that contentment that Cosette told him about, both during the dinner and after it, when they had all retired to the drawing room and Cosette took to a book while Marius took to talking about his most rewarding work. He had thought about what Cosette said then; he had thought about it later as well, in his own rooms at Rue de l'Homme-Armé, empty and cold with just him to occupy them. He had thought about it still on the road back home and even when he — in the evening and at last — stepped through the threshold of his maisonette. He had thought about it over and over again and he did not know why, precisely; never before such a concept lingered on his mind, not even in Montreuil, when countless unwed ladies tried to woo Monsieur Madeleine and have him ask for their hand in marriage. Marriage. He had never paid much thought to it before; years ago, when he was a young man, he had more pressing matters to attend to than any possible budding romances. Then — Toulon, and after it, he was too afraid of being found out to even entertain such a notion. And now...

"Your trip was pleasant, I presume," Javert stated rather than asked, hunched over the desk, writing. He had no need to look up from his work and towards the door of the study to know precisely who it was that stood in the doorway. His hearing was as sharp as it ever was, and he recognised Valjean's footsteps with no difficulty.

"What makes you say so?" Valjean asked but made no attempt to move from the doorway; on the contrary, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe, for now content to simply watch Javert work, bent over some report or other, scribbling furiously. His hair — which was almost reaching his shoulders now — was tied with a blue ribbon on his neck and yet it still managed to curl slightly at the ends. Javert, for some time now, had claimed that it needed a good trim; Valjean had never vocally objected, but he rather liked to run his fingers through it at night. Javert had soft hair; Valjean had never thought that Javert might have soft hair.

"You've been standing there for some good minutes and you are yet to say anything," Javert noted. "You are only ever so deep in thought when your trip has gone well."

"It did. Cosette and Marius send their regards while Mademoiselle Gillenormand asks if you would be willing to accompany her to a Spring Ball later in the year."

That made Javert stop and turn his head to look at Valjean. Valjean smirked; while Cosette and Marius did ask him to pass their greetings to the dear Monsieur Javert — with similarly serious and pointed expressions, Valjean had noted at the time — Marius' aunt had not made such an inquiry. She did hint at it, that much was true, but she did not outright ask. It made Valjean wonder if it was due to her shyness or if perhaps Cosette forbade her.

Whatever it was that Javert searched for in Valjean's face, he found it for he only rolled his eyes and went back to work. "You did preemptively pass my best wishes to the happy couple, of course."

"I most certainly did," Valjean asserted. "Cosette asked me to thank you, both for the wishes and for the present."

"You bought her a present from me. Why am I not surprised."

Valjean shrugged, "It seemed like the right thing to do. Have you ever thought to get married?"

Javert put his pen down. Then, without turning back, he asked, "What possessed you to ask such a question?"

"Something Cosette had said, but it is not why I am asking. I am merely--curious."

"Curious," Javert repeated dully. When Valjean made no further comment, the man sighed. "The answer is 'no', Valjean. I did not. I suppose you could say that I always knew that women were of no interest to me; therefore such musings would be redundant."

"I did, once. Before--" Valjean stopped himself when he saw Javert's back straighten like a chord. Toulon, their years there, both together and apart, that was a sensitive topic still. Neither of them liked to think about it, talk about it even less. "Before life happened," he finished quite lamely.

"You could still--that is, if you wished--"

"No," Valjean interrupted more harshly than he intended, such was the idiocy of the statement. Javert surely thought not-- "There is only one person in the world whom I could wish to marry."

Javert turned to him once more and searched his face; then he gaped, like it surprised him, what Valjean meant and that he meant _him_. Any other time Valjean would laugh at this flustered expression; any other time but today.

"That is illegal!" Javert sputtered finally, perhaps too shocked to say anything more.

Valjean moved further into the room, stood himself closer to where Javert was sitting by the large desk. The light of the candle flickered and this angle had put Javert's face in a strange shadow. The man's blue eyes now looked dark, like the bottomless sea or a starless night. Javert's eyes were beautiful and so expressive when one knew how to read them and what to look for in them; their colour changed depending on the light and the man's mood. Valjean would never tire of noticing how beautiful they were.

"Suppose it was not," he said. He did not know why he pursued the topic. Perhaps he selfishly wanted to know if his foolish desires where shared; perhaps he wanted to know what would be the answer if he ever asked the question.

Javert shook his head, "I do not have to suppose, it simply is not."

"Suppose we could--"

Javert's voice grew more and more irritated with each passing second, "We cannot."

"But--"

"Don't," Javert said in a tone that invited no further arguing. He was standing; neither of the men noticed when he rose from the chair. "Such arguments are tiring and pointless. The law forbids it and that is not going to change. Leave it be, Valjean."

Javert did not storm out of the study, but he did leave hastily, abandoning his half-written report on the desk. Valjean heard his footsteps echo in the long corridor and the sound of the last door on the right, the most creaking door in the whole house, opening. That was Javert's bedroom. The man had his own room, of course, for all that he shared the master bedroom with Valjean and Valjean's bed more often than not. Javert's room was more of a storage place for things Javert did not want anywhere else, old trinkets, files, reports, some books; it was only used for sleeping on the rare occasions when Cosette and Marius visited or on the even rarer when he and Valjean argued so profoundly that Javert refused to lay with him in the night.

Valjean hoped this was not one of those nights.

It was not; it was well past midnight when the door to the master bedroom opened and Javert came in in his nightshirt and laid down on the enormous bed next to Valjean. Neither spoke of the scene in the study, and Javert allowed Valjean to put his arms around him and pull him closer. Javert put his head on Valjean's chest, right over Valjean's heart; Valjean pressed a soft kiss to the top of Javert's head.

"I would," he whispered into Javert's hair, "if I could."

~***~

The next time Valjean was in Paris it was spring and Barthe was replaced by Jean-Charles Persil as the Minister of Justice. It did nothing to help or to flaw Marius' career; Marius was a good and reliable worker and his grandfather's name was still respected enough for him to survive any changes in the office.

The weather was beautiful; Valjean took Cosette for a walk in the Luxembourg — they went their usual, tried route, they sat at a bench in their usual spot. Valjean tipped his head back and basked in the warmth of the spring sun; it was a marvelous feeling, to be able to sit here and not worry about anything, about anyone finding them out. It was even better than the walks he and Cosette had when she was a girl.

"I will have to bid my goodbyes soon, Papa," Cosette said as she tried to readjust her dress. It was much tighter than it used to be, as if Cosette had put on some weight. "A tailor is coming to fit me for a new dress."

Valjean glanced sideways at his daughter. She did not look particularly more plump than two months ago — her face was not rounder and her wrists were as petite as ever — but the dress, which used to fit her perfectly, was now decidedly too tight. Oh, he knew, this one, he knew.

"You are with child," he risked saying in a conversational tone. Cosette's blush was an answer enough. Suddenly, he felt giddy. A child. She was expecting a child. That would make him--that would make him a grandfather.

"I believe so," Cosette said quietly, picking at the lace of the dress. She gazed at him in all seriousness. "I have not told Marius yet," she told him and he understood the underlying message. He was not to tell Marius either. "I wish to be sure."

He nodded. Of course. Sometimes, sometimes things happened.

"I am happy for you," he said instead.

Cosette squeezed his hand, "I know, Papa."

They did bid their goodbyes soon — much sooner than Valjean first anticipated — but not before he promised to come over for dinner, which he did gladly. Having suddenly found himself with time to spare, Valjean went for a different walk, this time across the streets of Paris instead of the common gardens. He walked past Rue Plumet — he did stop near his old house, where he and Cosette once lived, and he tipped his hat to the current owner who appeared in the garden — and made his way towards the more known boulevards. He did not even notice when his steps led him to a little jewellery shop where he sometimes bought presents for Cosette. She was with child now, Valjean mused as he opened the door and stepped inside, that warranted a gift of some sort.

"Monsieur Valjean!" A tiny bald man appeared behind the counter and greeted him warmly; Dreyfus was his name and he was a goldsmith and a jeweler, the very best of his kind. "What a pleasant surprise!"

Valjean bowed his head slightly. This, hearing his true name spoken aloud and not having to fear, this was another marvelous thing that took some accustoming to.

"How can I help you, monsieur, on this fine day?" Dreyfus asked politely.

"I am looking for a gift for my daughter," Valjean said. "I wish it to be something particularly special."

Dreyfus tsk-tsked and smiled brightly, "Then it is a good thing monsieur decided to come today. I have just received new items from my business partners in the east. Come, come," he beckoned Valjean closer and he took out a tray with some jewellery, "and look. Russian gold. Rare and very beautiful."

And beautiful it was. Earrings, pendants, brooches, all delicate and ornamented, made with an uttermost precision, all possessing a soft pink tinge. There were plenty of things among Dreyfus' stock that would delight Cosette; but it were not the earrings or pendants or brooches that captured Valjean's attention. He reached out and took a ring into his hand. Dreyfus whistled with appreciation.

"'Tis a fine piece," he said, "but it is not for a woman. It is a man's ring."

"It is not a signet ring," Valjean noticed. It was much simpler, with the bezel and shoulder not properly or even noticeably defined; there was no escutcheon on it and the pattern that was on it run around it. It was a most curious piece.

"No, it is a simple band," Dreyfus agreed. "But it is not the shape that makes it so outlandish; it is the ornament."

"What of it?"

Dreyfus hmphed and took the ring from Valjean's hand. He brought it closer to the light, ran his finger along the ridges of it and said, "Those are leaf motifs. See this pattern here, monsieur? This is ivy, these are ivy leaves, and the whole ring is covered in it. Ivy, as my good wife explained to me, in the secret language of flowers stands for friendship as well as for fidelity and wedded love. If I did not know any better," Dreyfus put the ring down, back onto the tray, "I would say this was a wedding ring."

"A wedding ring," Valjean repeated.

Dreyfus nodded, "I have already resigned myself to never selling it. People may say things about my business, but I would never allow a man to leave wearing such a piece!"

"I will buy it," Valjean heard himself say before he was even aware he was going to say anything at all. It surprised him, though no more than it surprised Dreyfus.

"Monsieur Valjean is surely attempting to make me laugh."

"I assure you, I am not." Valjean poked the ring with his finger. Suddenly he was sure of his decision. "I wish to buy it."

Dreyfus, still eyeing him suspiciously, packed the ring and even added a small wooden box to keep it in, free of charge, as he claimed that it would surely be the only place Monsieur Valjean would keep it in. Valjean did not argue with that statement, but mostly because he had no desire to; he was already devising a plan on what to do with this piece of jewellery and wondered where it would look best.

He knew where it would look best. The problem was finding a way to put it there.

~***~

There had been impromptu weddings in Toulon, marriages held by the inmates for themselves; the practice had been frowned upon by the commissary of the prison, yet nothing was ever done about it. Valjean, for his part, could not have understood it, back then. He had been strong and well-built and imposing, so no one ever dared to approach him; young prisoners with less strength than him had not been so fortunate and sometimes fallen prey to older and more experienced inmates — that much he had understood, the animalistic nature of men forced into such a life. Some favours ought to had been be repaid in a certain way. But some men, some men had chosen those relationships of their own will — and that used to escape Valjean's understanding. He used to think, when he cared to think about it at all, that it was merely a bad habit born of the conditions, the unhealthy and insufficient food, the constant tension and fear. He used to think that other men could no longer distinguish one thing from another; and so they leapt readily at what they could have never conceived of outside of that hell. There were urges which were difficult to ignore and the men wanted, and they wooed and flattered and seduced and sometimes, sometimes when they were refused, they took by force. And they all thought it to be what they wanted.

He had once, in the early days of his sentence, argued about those marriages with a chainmate of his, Delon. Delon had been a strong and proud man, never bending under the lash, never yielding for anyone. Valjean had been glad to have a friend in this older inmate, even if he scoffed every time he saw Delon with that boy of his, a young man from Lorraine, whose grasp of the French language had been poor enough to make him fall victim to unwanted attention. Delon had taken the boy into his care; his care, however, had been no better than that of any other prisoner and Valjean, felling bold in his camaraderie with the man, had told him so. Delon had only laughed, telling Valjean that if he had ever been absolutely wrong about something, this was it. Valjean had not understood; Delon had said that, if Valjean were very lucky, he would one day meet a good woman who would make him understand what Delon and his boy shared.

Valjean propped his head on his hand and spun the ring on the table. He did not meet a good woman, but he did understand now.

He tried subtlety first; he had left the little wooden box with the ring inside it on the desk in the study, in the hopes that Javert would notice it; when that failed, he moved it to the nightstand on Javert's side of the bed. He had not anticipated, however, how skilled Javert was at not noticing things he simply did not want to see. Valjean sighed and grabbed the ring, put it into the pocket of his trousers. He would simply have to find some other way.

He extinguished the candle which sat on the desk, rose from the chair and exited the study, made his way to the master bedroom. It was well past midnight; the balcony door was opened and moonlight fell into the room, casting half of it, the bed included, in a soft glow. Javert was already in bed, face buried in a fluffy pillow, asleep. His left hand was lying on the empty left side of the bed, in the spot where Valjean's chest would normally be.

Valjean sat down on the bed and put a hand on Javert's head, ran his fingers through the soft wave of his hair. Javert nuzzled the pillow and leaned slightly into Valjean's touch.

"Have you finished your book at last?" he asked sleepily.

Valjean's hand came to a stop on Javert's neck. "Yes," he said. "It was a good book."

"Come to bed," Javert murmured and tried to grab at Valjean's clothes with his left hand.

Valjean caught that wondering hand a pressed a kiss to the back of it, then five small kisses to the knuckles. Perhaps. Perhaps now. "I love you," he said.

Javert hummed into the pillow. " I know."

Valjean could hear the smile in the man's voice. Still clutching Javert's hand, he moved his free hand to the trousers' pocket and took out the ring. In the light of the moon the pink tinge was much more pronounced.

"There was a time," Valjean said quietly, purposefully not looking at Javert's face still buried in the pillow, preferring to focus on the man's hand instead, "when a marriage was performed simply when two people consented. There was no need for laws and registers; it was binding when those two people said 'I marry you' to each other."

Javet lifted his head, more awake now than he was mere minutes ago. "What are you doing?" he asked, and he sounded both breathless and a little scared.

"Marrying you," Valjean answered simply. He pressed one more kiss to the back of Javert's hand and then he slowly, deliberately slipped the ring onto the man's ring finger. "I take you to be my husband." He turned the hand in his grasp and kissed the fingertips. "I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad," a kiss to the centre of Javert's palm, "in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you," a kiss to the inner wrist, "all the days of my life."

Javert said nothing to that, just continued staring at Valjean in mute shock. So be it. Valjean brushed a thumb over the pulse point on Javert's wrist, then let go of the man's hand. It was nothing; it did not even mean anything. Valjean laid down on the bed on his side, facing Javert. The man brought his hand to his eyes and looked at the gold band on his finger. It was a truly beautiful ring and it looked good against Javert's dusky skin.

Javert sighed. He reached out and took Valjean's right hand into his left, entwined their fingers. "I take this ring," he whispered, in a somewhat trembling voice, "as a sign of your love and fidelity."

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," Valjean finished the vow with a small smile playing upon his lips. He heard Javert breathe in sharply; the man looked overwhelmed. He looked just like Valjean felt, like he could not contain himself, like everything suddenly became much bigger than just the two of them; he looked like that, only a tad more afraid. Valjean leaned in, intending to kiss that fear from his face.

"It is still not legal," Javert noted in a hushed voice, as if he did not want anyone to hear. Like this was a secret just the two of them shared, something precious and sacred that ought to be protected between them. "It is not real."

"Not in the eyes of the people, no," Valjean agreed. 

Javert scooped closer, pressed his body against Valjean's; he put his left hand on Valjean's chest and curled his fingers on the fabric of the man's nightshirt. The ring gleamed in the night light.

"But I would like to think," Valjean carried on, "that it is real in the eyes of the good God."

"If it is, you will never rid yourself of me."

Valjean laughed and put his hand into Javert's hair, stroking languidly. Javert purred like an overgrown cat. "As if I would ever want to rid myself of you," he whispered and Javert all but beamed at that.

~***~

_There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,_  
_When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie,_  
_With heart never changing, and brow never cold,_  
_Love on thro' all ills, and love on till they die._

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of history-dump because I'm a sucker for research:  
> \- the story takes place in 1834; Berthe was the Minister of Justice till April that year, Persil immediately succeeded him,  
> \- wedding rings for men were not commonplace until after WWII; it was even customary for men to wear rings in antiquity, but from medieval times on the trend slowly died out and by 19th century practically the only type of ring worn were signet rings,  
> \- Russian gold is an old, out of use term for rose gold; it was used across Europe in early 19th century because rose gold was very popular in Russian Empire at the time - if anyone had business dealings with Russians, they'd end up with some of it at some point for sure,  
> \- Valjean is right, of course; consent of the two parties was the only requirement for marriage in Ancient Greece; such a practice survived in Christianity till 1566, when the Council of Trent set out strict rules of performing marriage  
> \- Valjean's opinion on the Toulon "weddings" is a slightly brushed up opinion that Vidocq shared in _Quelques mots sur une question à l’ordre du jour_ ; I translated it myself so any incorrect phrasing is probebly my fault (or a paraphrase)


End file.
